


The Last of the House of Fëanáro

by fingonsradharp



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon-level angst, Lightly Toasted Amrod, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Mention of major character death, Noldolante, Other, Second Age, feanorians - Freeform - Freeform, maglor misses his family, mags is highkey suicidal here, quenya names because fuck the ban, sad beach cryptid, sad cliff cryptid?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingonsradharp/pseuds/fingonsradharp
Summary: in which Makalaurë reflects on his family and his choices in the wake of his nephew’s death.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë & Sons of Fëanor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 36





	The Last of the House of Fëanáro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akirakurosawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akirakurosawa/gifts), [StormXPadme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormXPadme/gifts).



Tyelpë is dead.

Tyelpë is dead and Makalaurë cannot even go and see his memorial. He cannot say goodbye to his nephew, who had tried so hard to escape his family’s influence, to escape their curse.

And for all his efforts, for everything he did to be _good_ , he was still destroyed, sent to the Halls with a broken _fëa_ , all for trusting and loving someone who took advantage of him, who took advantage of his brilliant mind and his _goodness_.

Makalaurë is walking along a cliffside, cursing himself for failing once again to protect his family. He should have been there for Celebrimbor, he should have been there even though he was told to stay away.

But it is likely that he would not have been able to help. He would have only made it worse. Their bloodline is cursed, even for one such as his nephew, who had refused to swear their treacherous Oath. 

Makalaurë sits, letting the sea breeze blow into his face. He misses Valinor, he misses the beauty of Tirion and the happiness they had there, before his father had gone insane and his mother had left and he and his brothers became murderers.

He would never return there, he would never again hear the laughter of the twins or feel Nelyo’s arms around him or see Moryo roll his eyes as he began working on yet another piece of music. 

What, then, was he trying to accomplish by staying in Middle-Earth? Perhaps he hoped that the Valar would have mercy on them, that since they had thrown the Silmarils away that they could be redeemed. But he knew it would not, could not, happen. He had cast away the jewel in pain, not repentance. And it would take more than the Valar to pardon them from their Oath. They had sworn to the Allfather himself, and called down the Everlasting Darkness if they failed.

They had failed when the star of Eärendil, Gil-Estel, they called it, rose in the sky. But still they continued, and even when they had been offered mercy they had not taken it. Makalaurë had failed to sway Nelyo from his course then, but in truth, he had not tried as hard as he should have. If he had the chance to redo that day, he would have begged his brother to come with him to ask for pardon, he would have dragged him before Eönwë and pled for mercy. That had been their last chance.

They did not deserve to be saved. Makalaurë knew it. Perhaps… perhaps he was just trying to delay the inevitable. Perhaps he was just too stubborn to let go of his life, even when it was over. 

He cannot even help Elrond and Gil-Galad, his king, in the war against Þauron. They likely do not even know that he is still alive. If they did, surely they would have hunted him down by now.

But what good could he even do? He has never been a warrior, even in the days he was forced to become one. He had simply been a musician, and now he is not even that. Now he is just a wanderer, stepping too close to the edge of the cliff and wanting to follow his brothers down into death. 

He is the last of his father’s house. It does not feel right to throw away the legacy, even as the tears stream down his cheeks and his fingers dig into the ground, bruising his knuckles and getting under his nails. 

Makalaurë hates his father sometimes, when the scent of blood and smoke fill his nostrils, when he sees flames and swords and his vision goes red, and rage and sorrow consume his mind. 

But not everything can be blamed on Fëanáro. The burn marks on his hand, still unhealed after almost two thousand years, are proof of that. He made his choice in swearing the Oath. He burnt the boats when he could have stood aside. He made himself into a Kinslayer, three times over, taking children hostage and keeping them in captivity for years. He was judged evil by his father’s own creations, hallowed by the Queen of the Stars. 

These things he can only blame on himself. 

His knees are scraped from kneeling here for so long, and he knows he should move on. He is too close to Imladris, too close to someone who could see him. 

_Let them see,_ his mind whispers. _Let them see the last Fëanárion end his blight upon the world, casting himself down and accepting the Doom appointed to him._

But instead, he dries his tears. He takes out the small harp that he could never bring himself to get rid of. He plays, and he sings.

He sings of love and loss and pain and shadow. He sings for each of his brothers.

He sings for Telvo, ever joyful, ever persistent, quiet but willing to follow his family to the ends of Arda. If only he had spoken up when their actions became too much, more than motivation but _malice_. He had lay dying, clutching his twin brother and _apologizing_ , for following his Oath and not his heart.

He sings for Pityo, who had hardly spoken since he was almost lost at Losgar, who wore the burns on his body like reminders of what he could never become, but who stormed Sirion with blazing anger he had tried so hard to shove down. And in the end, he had spent every last drop of blood that had taken his twin from him, until he himself was spent.

He sings for Curvo, always their father’s shadow. He never wavered from his purpose, even when it took from him his son. His eyes had darkened after Alqualondë, when the soul of his wife no longer touched his, for it had been ripped from her body and summoned to Mandos. He had never stopped fighting, though he did occasionally change what he was fighting for. He had been proud, and arrogant, and Makalaurë had wept and cursed when he saw his baby brother’s body lying motionless in Menegroth.

He sings for Moryo, the quickest to anger, the loner, the knife in the dark. Too often was he the forgotten middle son, too often was he forced into the shadows. So he had learned to thrive. He had made the shadows his home. He was cunning, always able to read into the emotions of others. He made alliances with the Dwarves and the Edain when others would have thought them useless. But Moryo saw them as people, respected them, valued their presence as allies and friends. He had come to Makalaurë in tears before the Second Kinslaying, saying that his _fëa_ burned, that he had locked up his weapons so that he wouldn’t charge into the realm at that very moment. 

He sings for Tyelko, the fearless hunter who had earned the loyalty of a wolfhound almost as tall as he was. He was the most active, the quickest to laughter, never hesitating to love and trust his cousins despite their fathers’ disputes. But he had been second only to Curvo in the quickness of his response to Fëanáro’s fateful speech. His wrath had been horrifying to witness, and Makalaurë had buried his head in his hands when his brother demanded they attack the Nolofinwëan camp, Doriath, Angamando, anywhere. He had watched with broken eyes as his brother diminished and became a shadow of his former self, his only thoughts of vengeance, until he was wild and angry, charging with fire in his blood, blood that stained the leaves he had once loved. 

He sings for Nelyo, the first and almost the last, who had suffered unspeakable evils at the hands of Moringoþo himself, and his accursed lieutenant that even today still walked the lands. He had come back scarred and _afraid_ , as if any moment the world around him would be revealed to be an illusion. But even all his pain could not deter him, and he led vigorously, holding the rest of them back from their own rage. He had taken the worst dangers upon himself in order to spare them, though he had every reason to stay as far away as possible. Even when his _fëa_ had been wounded with the loss of his husband, he had tried diplomacy at every turn, even once defying their Oath and choosing peace, refusing what they had once thought impossible to resist. But it had slowly driven him mad, his mind unable to focus on anything but the jewel, held by thieves who had scorned them when they attempted civility. He was so broken by the end that he did not even try to resist the compulsion of the Oath, and had too easily convinced his last remaining brother to resort to thievery. He had not been surprised at their burning, only relieved that at last he could end his misery.

Makalaurë had watched each of his brothers die, and he had held his father as he crumbled to ashes before his eyes. But he had not been there for dear Tyelpë, who had no chains driving him, only the curse of his family’s bad decisions that had been placed on his shoulders in the lack of any other to put them on.

He sings for his father, once proud and great, who loved deeply and wanted to know everything. He constantly had questions for the other Eldar, for the Maiar, and eventually Aulë, when he got the chance to study under the great Vala. He had always encouraged his children to find questions to ask, and would take the time to patiently explain them in detail. He had loved Kanafinwë’s music, even asking him questions about certain pieces. Káno had glowed with pride at his father’s approval. 

But Fëanáro got harder and harder to impress, and soon he searched for his own answers to questions the Valar did not know. He began jealously hoarding his knowledge, sharing precious little even with his family, seeking to know everything but refusing to teach. 

His insanity had begun far before he pulled a sword on his brother, but it had only worsened after his banishment, after his wife had refused to come with him into exile.

Makalaurë’s song shifts into the Noldolantë. His voice is straining already, but he will make it through to the end. He must. Those he sings of will be remembered, whether or not they deserve to be.

Around him, the memory of blood and smoke is in his lungs. He sees fire and hears the clang of swords and the yells of his kin. His hands shake and remain steady, wielding blades and plucking strings, unharmed and charred. 

His voice resonates through the air and pierces the ground. Loose stones shake on the cliffside, vibrating in harmony with the melancholy rhythm. Some of them fall off the edge, whispering for him to follow them. He sings stronger, expecting the melody to force him over the side. For a moment, he leans forward. But Nelyo is before the flames, and Makalaurë is _begging_ him to come back, but he is not heard over the rush of blood in his brother’s ears.

This time, he will be heard. This time, he will save his brothers, and they will be free. From their Oath, from Moringoþo, from all of the pain and sorrow that they have brought.

This time, he will not fail.

But as the song reaches its crescendo, Makalaurë knows that he cannot change the past. This melody is one he wrote, and it is etched into his skin. It cannot be changed, cannot be fixed, only repeated, and remembered.

Makalaurë gently sets down his harp at the end. His cheeks are wet, his fingers raw.

“That was beautiful.”

He whips around, scrabbling backwards and almost falling off the cliffside. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The _nís_ standing before him is beautiful, with tan skin and long hair like starlight. She is looking at him strangely, no small amount of suspicion in her eyes. He probably looks like a mess, with dirt all over his clothes and his hair, and his face streaked with tears.

“Who are you?” she asks finally.

Makalaurë smiles sadly before humming a quiet Note under his breath. The air shimmers around him, and he picks up his harp and moves to pass the Elf, who is still looking at the spot where he had been sitting.

“No one of importance.”

**Author's Note:**

> A wild Ríngilith has appeared! Perhaps she will come back.


End file.
